by Tim Stegall
Time
is a rare and precious
commodity, like oil, diamonds, and the Clash’s Cost of Living EP. When
my time is wasted, I usually want
it paid back. By my calculations, Al Jourgensen owes me 11 hours of my life,
and I want it back. Now.
It was January ’95, and the latest Ministry LP was virtually complete. Or so
went the word received by Warner Bros. from the Jourgensen compound in Marble
Falls. Alternative Press wanted a cover story, and since I virtually
lived in the neighborhood, AP wondered if I’d be up for writing it. Why
not? Ministry had made an interesting record or two that sold some neatly
pilfered PIL and Big Black ideas to the bonehead alternametal market. Besides,
some of the most interesting writing comes from wading into alien
circumstances. While I was at it, I could also give the Chronicle the
piece they’d long desired on the area’s newly resident rock royalty.
Yeah, “alien circumstances” are one thing, but the disorientation which
followed a pleasant ride out to Marble Falls (graciously provided by Warner’s
Bill Bentley, possibly the world’s most human – and humane – record
company executive) could only be compared to being dropped from this reality
into one painted by Robert Williams. Once we passed the water fountain marking
the entrance of the designer community housing Jourgensen HQ, I should’ve
kissed time goodbye, or at least whatever schedule Ministry’s PR/management
firm, Megaforce, had provided. That January day, a batch of us journalists and
photographers were flown into the area from exotic locales ranging from England
to Chicago to talk to Jourgensen about the upcoming album. What we didn’t know
was that Jourgensen’s sleeping schedule had already capsized the
interview/photo schedule by a good five hours. All the better to get a look at
Al’s world, I figured.
The compound consisted of three buildings and a tennis court. Flanking the
main two-story building that housed the studio and Jourgensen’s living quarters
was a building for whomever currently composed Ministry (save for Paul Barker,
who opted to commute from the Austin home he shares with his wife), and a third
structure in which a constantly perking espresso machine stoked the anxiety
levels of people barking through phone lines over the details of an upcoming
Ministry tour of Australia. Off the studio was a bar, a bedroom for Jourgensen
that resembled a teenager’s (down to the strewn clothing, piles of records, and
collaged photos of various musical icons on the walls), and a staircase leading
upstairs to a pool room, a kitchen, and a TV room in which various people
watched a slasher flick on cable featuring Nicolas Cage’s face being shoved
into a deep fryer. Amongst a stack of magazines on a table was a framed
document legally changing Jourgensen’s name from “Allen” to “Alain.”
Jourgensen’s engineer, Paul Manno, kindly previewed the tracks completed thus
far through monitors bigger than the main speaker stacks found in most rock
clubs. At that date, all that had been completed were the already notorious
vivisection of Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay” and its swirly B-side, “Paisley.” Six
more tracks of high-tech cement-mixer metal (enlivened by Rey Washam’s
percussive brilliance) were in varying states of completion, and Paul Barker
would confess later that evening of the need to compose six more tunes,
much less record them. They had been working since the previous October, but
somehow it didn’t seem that the planned April release date would be met.
Photo sessions continued apace as more and more beer and wine was consumed.
Laika & the Cosmonauts blasted from the boombox in the bar, while another
boombox upstairs blasted the very same Laika CD on a totally different track.
Occasionally, Jourgensen would break to play (and scream at) a Gameboy, and
shout the praises of Dick Dale. Meantime, the press pack attempted to quell its
boredom and impatience by trading gossip about London Suede. Or comparing
footwear. Or telling war stories about The Worst Hotel Rooms We’d Slept In. And
Laika blasted another pair of totally different songs.
About 10pm, Paul Barker and I walked upstairs to begin the interview
(scheduled for 7pm). Jourgensen pledged to come up once he’d finished the jug
of wine he was nursing. As Barker and I talked about Ministry then and now, the
New York Dolls, and the artistry of Al Green, Jourgensen was downstairs,
blaring the Rolling Stone’s country burlesque “Far Away Eyes,” smashing
crockery, and hurling potato chips around. Word was sent upstairs that Al no
longer felt like doing interviews today and wished to schedule a phone
interview for next week. Word was sent downstairs that Alternative Press frowned upon making cover stories out of phone interviews, and that Jourgensen
may find himself reading the first Ministry article he was never interviewed
for.
Things got uglier from there, uglier than I care to reflect upon. Suffice to
say words were exchanged that led to months of recriminations flying between
Austin, Cleveland, and New Jersey, as well as to the breakdown of a long and
friendly working relationship between Ministry and Alternative Press. No
story was ever written. All I walked away with from that evening were many
bizarre memories, a strong sense of admiration for Paul Barker, and an even
stronger sense that none of this was worth the cancellation of my regularly
scheduled band practice. n
This article appears in October 13 • 1995 and October 13 • 1995 (Cover).